Conversations with the Weebles can turn to morbid thoughts. Usually, this happens around the holidays . "Well, I wonder how many Christmases I have left." "This may be my last Thanksgiving." Deep sigh. Forlorn look. I'm never sure if the comments are to spark some sympathy or some sort of death wish.
Dad and I were having a cup of tea. Ma had nodded off and her tea sat untouched and getting cold. Dad shook his head and heaved a deep sigh.
"Sometimes, I don't know. Maybe it would be better to just." He raised his index finger and pointed it at his temple.
"Don't you dare!" I yelled horrified. "You're not going to leave me to handle this by myself."
He gave me that "what are you going to do about it look."
"If you do. If you do.." I tried to think of the worse thing. "I'll wear red to your funeral and dance on your grave."
He laughed. "That's alright. I won't mind."
I didn't think quickly enough on my feet. I thought of the perfect answer on the way home. What I should have said: If you do, I'll bury her in the same hole!